


Control

by Mottled_System



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Alpha Kylo Ren, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Bad Parents Han and Leia, Dark Past, Dominant Kylo Ren, Han And Leia Are Bad Parents, Han and Leia Bashing, Kylo Ren Angst, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren Redemption, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Nonbinary Character, Omega Verse, Other, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Possessive Kylo Ren, Prison, Prison Sex, Protective Kylo Ren, Redeemed Ben Solo, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Top Kylo Ren
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28649019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottled_System/pseuds/Mottled_System
Summary: You (nonbinary) are an omega living in the Outer Rim. You've heard- whispers- about Kylo Ren and his strange abilities, things that go much farther than any alpha you've ever met before. You had never thought that, captured by the First Order for unwittingly supplying the Resistance, that YOU would experience these powers firsthand...... Or that he would be so willing to show an increasing amount of mercy towards you.I have never written nor read an omegaverse story before, and everything I know comes secondhand from my friend/is changed bc I want it to be.
Relationships: Ben Solo & Reader, Ben Solo & You, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & Reader, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & You, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Reader, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/You, Ben Solo/Reader, Ben Solo/You, Kylo Ren & Reader, Kylo Ren & You, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brooke_Winter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brooke_Winter/gifts).



You are strapped to what amounts, really, to an upright mortuary table, the metal of it cold and unforgiving. You are tipped back far enough to keep you properly against the table, but not for the table to truly support you; no, that job falls largely to the metal restraints at your wrists and ankles. From the corners of your eyes, you can see the two halves of an open neck restraint. But it is not really the thought of that being closed- of being half-strangled and kept there for Gods know how long, and for Gods know why- that bothers you, because that doesn’t sink in. You are vaguely aware of that possibility in only the most superficial of ways.

No, what bothers you- what eats at you and causes you to squirm and struggle against your restraints quite uselessly- in fact, it only agitated you further, making you feel more helpless- is the  _ sound _ , a dull humming that could be coming from anywhere in the ship, realistically; a sound you cannot begin to reason out the source of. It is the epitome of your dilemma; an ever hissing irritation that encapsulates the endless and merciless inertia of your suspension. You cannot stop the sound. You cannot remove the restraints. You cannot find a way to lean backwards, or forwards, or to any side, in order to ease the increasingly uncomfortable pressure on your joints. So you remain as still as possible and try vehemently and in vain to pretend that you are okay with this to quell the sense of terror and uselessness that threatens to send you into a panicked, horrified frenzy. You’re sure you could do so successfully were it not for that  _ sound _ eating away at you like a maggot.

You lean back into the table upon which you are, for lack of a better word, draped, and squeeze your fists taut, clenching your eyes, and let out a hushed whimper, as if that was ever going to help you remain calm. And, just as you begin to believe that they are going to leave you here to drive yourself mad until you starve, there is a new sound that sweeps across the small room and towards your ears, drowning out that damnable hissing- the substantial  _ whoosh _ of the great mechanical door behind you. Then, footfalls- not slow and yet not fast, purposeful, arrogant. You resist the impossibly strong urge to stretch your neck around to look at whoever has come here.

“Finally,” you say, your voice more shaky than you’d have liked but not nearly as shaky as it ought to be, given the situation. “I was getting bored. Forgive me for beginning to doubt the manners of the First Order.”

As you speak, he moves in front of you, like a weary and wisened wolf. He does not stalk forward like a starved whelp, but he stands tall and steady, unwavering and unaffected by your unfunny remark. He wears an all black outfit, a black helmet, and a  _ cape _ \- quite dramatic. And, unsurprisingly, also black. For a moment, you imagine how silly the look would be if his cape were any other color- except, perhaps, red. But only, like, a really threatening red. You don’t think white would really work, either- just black or red.

He turns towards you finally, inches taller than you even as you are suspended above the ground. He looms over you, tall and broad and threatening. He does not seem amused by you in the least.

“This would be really hot, you know, under different circumstances.”

“Silence,” he hisses. You’ve never met a man who exudes more alpha energy than him- that being said, of course, the last person to have held that title had, in truth, been a beta. You mentally curse yourself for thinking like that, but of course, you know you have little control over what you think. “ _ Omega _ .” He hisses it like it's an insult.

“Oh,” you say. “You’re one of  _ those _ alphas, are you?”

He steps closer, nearly pressing himself against you. He must be in heat, because a wave of fervent desire stirs instantly in your stomach. You look away and close your eyes. It is easy to resist- especially when only one of you is in heat- but it never ceases to be terrifying to be reminded of the power people have over you, no matter how willing they may or may not be to exert it. He lurches away from you suddenly, for some reason, and visibly composes himself. “I said,” he hisses, the respirator of his mask making his words garbled and inhuman- wolfish, almost. “ _ Silence _ .”

You say nothing, jaw clenched, as the- urge- slowly fades, as the small fire he had ignited within you burns itself out. You stare at the soulless eyes of his monstrous mask, not quite glowering, but certainly very unhappy. “You’ve been supplying the Resistance- that’s  _ treason _ .”

You knit your brow. “No. I- no.”

He tilts his head, though he does not seem to be truly quizzical. “You deny it?”

“I- I- Not that I know of. I don’t do background checks, I- I have records, logs. You’re free to have them- I’m sure your people have obtained them already. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mmm,” the alpha says, leaning closer. “You know I can take whatever I want.”

You tense reflexively and turn your head again, but he doesn’t exert his power over you again- not yet, anyway. “I have nothing to give,” you hiss through clenched teeth.

“We’ll see,” he says.

“You’re Kylo Ren,” you state quickly, and your knowledge gives him pause, makes him lean back a bit to hear you out before performing his horrific magic. “Aren’t you?”

“I am. How do you know that?”

“I’ve heard about you,” you whisper. “Runaway troopers- many from this very ship- have a tendency to stop by my planet, at least for a few weeks.”

“Is that so?”

“They say- the strangest things.”

“Do they?” His voice is impassive, but you get the distinct feeling he is growing bored.

“They say you can read minds.”

He tilts his head to the side, eyeing you silently. He’s like a cat, amused at the mouse’s desperate attempts to scramble away from him. “Just- do that. Anything but- please.”

He studies you for a long moment, unmoving, offering no hint of his reaction, not a glance. “Why? I’ve never met such a…  _ Frightened _ omega.”

“I don’t like it,” you say gently. “I’m sure you’ll see why when you do- whatever your mind reading magic is.”

“Mmm,” he says. His respirator hisses it out, making it inhuman, robotic. “And why should I do that? Why should I care that it bothers you so?”

“Why not? Why not reach in and take what you want rather than- watch me sputter it out and squirm? What do you get out of that?”

A sound hisses out of his mask, though the emotion behind it is lost- it could be a scoff, a chuckle, a sigh, or anything else. “You haven’t met very many alphas, have you?”

You glower at him silently for a long moment. He takes another step closer, once again nearly touching you, and you whimper aloud. “Please-”

“Shut. Up.”

You stare at him for a moment- a moment that is simultaneously an eternity, and the briefest you’ve ever sat through- before you spit on him. He doesn’t flinch, but the air between the two of you changes instantly, and you watch it sink into the grooves of his mask before, with a gloved hand, he flicks it off with fast, sudden, angry movements.

And then- with a flourish of anger- his hand, still damp, is around your throat- not truly choking you, but frightening enough- and slams your head back into the table.

“How dare you?” he hisses, but his voice, while angry, is almost… Impressed.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, scowling at him. Of course he isn’t going to abide you now- obviously- and you resign yourself to go down swinging.

He can use his forced dominance over you all he wants- he can awaken unnerving hormones in you- and yet he will never erase you, your desires and wills and personhood, no matter how hard he may try.

There is a tense moment between the two of you, silent, before finally, you feel it-

But not the unbearable dominance, not the treacherous folding of your own body to his. Instead, you feel a poking at your mind, as if he’s trying to press a knitting needle into your skull. You furrow your brow, unnerved, but relax against it. Before you know it, he has poured his own self into your mind, every inch of himself scouring every inch of you, taking all of you within him. You don’t know how long he remains, searching and logging every ounce of truth and history you have, but when he retreats, it is as sudden as his arrival, and you collapse down against your restraints, panting, as your brain readjusts to- reality. You look up at him, staring at his visage, his veneer. You were not privy to his mind, nor his truth, but you had felt him- the very essence of him- and it was not… This.

“Guards,” he demands, turning his head slightly, presumably looking at the open door behind you. Two sets of footfalls find their way into the room. “Move the prisoner to a cell- a private cell.”

“I didn’t know anything about-” you say, horrified. He had seen! He had looked, and he had seen- everything.

“If you had, the punishment would be execution. Be thankful for your life.”

He stalks out and you sputter there, still ever immobile, as the stormtroopers come closer to move you.


	2. Chapter 2

You have searched this room for a light- anywhere the unobtrusive brightness may be coming from- but see nothing. When you had arrived, the cell had been dark and you had fallen asleep; when you awoke, it was bright. You were convinced the light turning on had been what had awoken you, and you assumed that that was its purpose- to tell you when you were to sleep and when you were to be awake.

The cell you find yourself in is small and square and sterile, with a surprisingly forgiving cot and eerily clean facilities. You lay on the cot and look up at the white ceiling, worried.

White, minimalistic rooms like this were designed to drive people mad.

At what you assume to be breakfast time, a hitherto unnoticed opening at the bottom of the door opened and a plate slid beneath it, offering one single portion of ration. You tug it closer and poke at it with suspicion before eating it. It is bland and the texture is inoffensive; a big upgrade from the slightly sour, strange rations of your homeworld.

Time passes slowly, but you are uncharacteristically unfrightened- you are, however, perturbed by your strange… Okayness. You should be horrified. You should be broken at the thought of what would happen to you- certainly, they weren’t going to keep you here. You would be shipped off to some incarceration planet and you would die in a few months, top, doing hard labor. Or, worse- they would notice what  _ bits _ you have and sell you off to a different, much less appealing, sort of slave labor, and you would surely kill yourself in half the time.

But, even though these thoughts kept crossing your mind, you didn’t really think them, process them, believe them. You lay on your cot and stare up at the ceiling, feeling… Relaxed, relatively. You could not remember the last day you hadn’t worked.

Shortly after you have finished eating another inoffensive ration, the door to your cell opens, revealing Kylo Ren standing there. His dark figure is only more intimidating in this all-white environment.

“Did you miss me?” you ask nonchalantly, leaning to look over at him from where you lay, draped on your cot.

“Stand.”

With a sigh, you do, taking your time. “I’ll bet you give the best, most considerate foreplay-”

He interrupts you with a dark chuckle, of all things, that is hard to identify through his respirator. “Silence. Come with me.”

“Mmm,” you say, mimicking his constant response from the night before. You hobble after him, stopping at the doorway for him to cuff you. Surrounded by stormtroopers, you keep your snarky comment to yourself. He turns and leads you away, and you follow him.

Your legs ache by the time you arrive at your destination, and he leads you past a mechanical door locked by a passcode he easily hides from you. Inside, you are more than surprised to see what looks like an apartment within, barely lived in at all.

“You will not leave these chambers,” he said. “That is your room. Inside, your bathroom. As you can see, that is the kitchen, that is the dining room, and this is the living room. To the left, my bedroom and bathroom. You are not permitted to enter them.”

You stand there, cold. You look up at his helmet, but he does not look at you.

This is your fate, then? You had not considered… Him. You hug yourself, not wanting to ask your next question. “What do you want from me?”

He is silent for a long moment. Then, he walks in front of you and sits on the settee, removing his helmet and setting it beside him. He turns the holo on as you take in his appearance.

His hair is long and loosely curled, his jaw long and strong. His cheekbones are high and subtle, his nose long and hooked. His eyes are dark and intense, his lips loose and pouted. “Sit.” Grinding your teeth painfully, you perch yourself on the edge of the seat that is farthest from him. His jaw works and he scowls at the holo. “If you insist on doing the bare minimum, I will force you to do the maximum.”

You glower and shuffle closer to him, farther onto the settee, but you don’t touch him. He relaxes, and for a while, you both watch- whatever he had put on. Eventually, though, he speaks again. “Do you cook? Do you- like to cook?”

“I’ve never cooked.”

“Mmm.” More silence. “Do you- want to?”

You frown at him. He’s scowling again as he looks at the holo, as if he’s uncomfortable. “Why?”

He looks over at you as if that’s a dumb question, as if he’s confused. “Because it’s time for dinner.”

“Do you not have portions?”

He scoffs, looking away. “No. I cook.”

“Well, then, go cook.”

Angrily, he propels himself forward. “I was just-  _ nevermind _ .” He all but stomps towards the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge and cabinets. You ignore him, frowning at the holo, pretending that it doesn’t smell increasingly delicious. Eventually, however, it seems to be done, as he carries a few bowls to the table and wordlessly turns off the holo. You glance at it; it looks like it would be enough for two people, but you are not going to assume. This- all of it- is strange and unfamiliar and you don’t know what to do, what’s happening.

“Come here,” he snarls. “And  _ eat _ .”

You purse your lips, walking over and sitting across from him, arms crossed in front of you. He serves both of you and begins to eat, and before he can snarl at you again, you take an experimental bite, chewing slowly. Begrudgingly, he relaxes, turning back to his food. “What do you want from me?”

Yet again, he doesn’t reply, just takes another heaping bite of his food. When you open your mouth to repeat the question again, he scowls at you again. “Just  _ eat _ .”

You are both angry and silent as you finish eating. When you’re finished, he stands and grabs a bowl, carrying it into the kitchen. “Wash the dishes.”

You do as he bid, gathering the dirty dishes and carrying them to the sink as he puts the leftover food away. When he finishes, he dries the dishes you’ve washed and puts them away. When you’re done, you stand there, uncomfortable, unsure.

What the hell was this supposed to be?

He looks at you then, finished, frowning at you- again, he looks like he wants to say something, but can’t bring himself to. He grows more irritated by the moment. Then, suddenly, his face neutralizes and he stalks off wordlessly into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Moments later, you hear what must the shower turn on. With nothing to do, you wander into your new bedroom for the first time, getting a feel for it- the cold, tile floor, the grey-beige walls, the sleek, dark furniture, the low lighting. You wander into the even darker, equally as swanky bathroom. There is a large soaking tub, and the shower is almost as big as your old bedroom had been.

You wait until you cannot hear his shower running, and then a little while longer, before running yourself a bath. Rummaging through the cabinet reveals soap, shampoo, conditioner, and other, more frivolous bath time products. Experimentally, you add a bit of each, then lay down in your strangely scented bath.

You are weary about what he wants from you, weary about what he might intend to do to you. You’ve heard stories of slaves being lavished and cared for- all in exchange for something you very much are not willing to give, not to Kylo Ren and not to anyone.

You push it out of your mind. He had not touched you. He had not- gazed at you. He had fed you and cleaned up with you. He had removed you from a fate that, surely, would have been much worse. Of course, you aren’t going to celebrate him for doing the bare minimum of  _ not _ damning you to a horrific, short life for merely  _ accidentally _ supplying the Resistance, but there was no reason to worry, yet. There was nothing you could do… Yet.

And he had given you your own room. Surely, if he intended to keep you like  _ that _ , that wouldn’t be necessary?

Eventually, once your fingers have wrinkled and you feel more than tired from the warmth, the darkness, the smells, and a full belly, you clamber out of the bath and wander to your bedroom in your towel. Before you can wonder what you’re meant to wear, you see a pile of folded clothes laying on your bed that had not been there before your bath. You change into it- just a loose back shirt and loose black pajama bottoms. They must be Kylo’s, judging by the size of them. You’re not particularly small, but he is… Large.

You walk out into the main room, finding it empty, and move towards the closed door leading to Kylo’s bedroom. Sheepishly, you knock. A few moments later, the door opens- seemingly by itself, as Kylo is sitting at the foot of his bed, hair damp, donning a sock.

“What?”

“What do I do with dirty laundry?

He blinks as if he had not considered that, then motions toward a hamper beside his dresser. “There.” You inch forward and drop the dirty clothes and used towel into it, nearly filling it. You look over at him, socks on both feet, as he sits there, staring at the ground. After a moment, he speaks; “I’ll get you new clothes soon. And a hamper of your own.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly, uncomfortable.

His eyes meet yours suddenly, and he looks- while still intense- quizzical, curious, and almost… Soft. You blink. “You’re strange,” he notes.

“Why’s that?”

He looks behind you at the main room. “All I’ve done for you already, and you offer nothing but- rudeness. Why thank me now?”

Your brow knits, but you largely succeed at containing your anger. “All you’ve done for me? How can I thank you for something you won’t tell me about? You refuse to tell me what, exactly, that is- and why you’re doing it. What you want from me in return.”

He scowls again and looks away, looking almost homicidal. He shakes his head gently, as if subconsciously, and he visibly grits his teeth. He grows angrier by the moment for several long seconds. “You’d be dead by now if anyone else had come to question you.”

“Well,” you say calmly, but sternly. “Thank you for not murdering me for a crime I didn’t commit.”

His eyes turn towards you again. “You  _ did _ .”

“Unknowingly, maybe, but you’ve shown me no proof-”

He snarls wordlessly, successfully silencing you. You stand there for a long moment, growing ever more tired. “Go,” he says several moments later, less angry- though he still scowls at the wall. “Sleep.”

You turn and walk off, not bothering to close the door behind you. Regardless, just as you reach your own door, you hear his click closed. You lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling, wondering but not worrying- which should be, in and of itself, concerning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tw for talk of past trauma, past human trafficking, past abuse, child soldiers, et cetera

_ You open your eyes to see him standing there, leaning casually on the dresser, arms folded. You jump and tense, sitting up, hugging the blanket close to you as if you weren’t already covered. He tenses a little, his jaw tensing. His eyes grow weary- and strangely apologetic. _

_ An eternity drags on at a snail’s pace as you look at him, his dark eyes. His freckled and marked face. _

_ The lighting is dim and strange, almost foggy. You try to focus on it and it only fades more and more away, and again, the moment lasts far longer than it has any right to. You’re filled with confusion and almost panic. _

_ “Careful,” he says quietly. “You’ll wake yourself up doing that.” _

_ “I’ll- what?” You look over at him with a frown. You can see him, focus on him. He is more real than your hazy room. “What are you- what are you doing? Why are you here?” _

_ “You tell me,” says the alpha, shifting. He looks less angry, less daunting, though he is still broad and brooding. “It’s your dream, after all.” _

_ There’s another hazy eternity as your eyes struggle to perceive him, as the panic envelops you, and then- _

You gasp as you awake for real, then shudder and exhale a jagged breath. You yawn and press your palm against your face, rub your eyes with both, as you grow accustomed to consciousness once more.

What was that dream? He had felt so different and yet, so intimately familiar. Why had you dreamt of him? How had he told you that you were dreaming?

You’d never known you were dreaming as you dreamt before.

You sit up and yawn again, stretching. As usual, you’re beyond sore. You look down at your wrists, bruised from the day before. You check your ankles to see them bruised as well.

Lovely.

You freeze and look up as the door opens, laying back silently as it slowly opens. You close your eyes almost all the way before the alpha comes into view in the doorway, his hair a mess. He glances at you and you find it surprisingly easy to keep your mind blank. He sets a stack of laundry on the dresser and studies you for a long moment. In the darkness of the room, you dare to open your eyes. He doesn’t react as his eyes scour over your body, buried in his too-large clothing and the sheet that lay across your chest.

He looks calmer, gentler. He looks more like he had in your dream. He feels less like the cold, angry veneer, and more like the essence of him that you had sensed the day before.

He backs out and closes the door gently behind him, just in time for you to let out another yawn. You hear him move to the kitchen, hear the clattering of pans and the opening of cabinets, the refrigerator. After a few moments of basking in the gentle, warm peace of the mattress, you slink into the bathroom to wash up briefly before changing into the clothes he had folded for you. They are still too large, but you tuck the front of the shirt into the pants, trying to style it somehow. Not that it matters, but it feels less like pajamas now.

You shuffle your feet as you move out of the bedroom, seeing him standing at the counter, chopping some vegetable, or something. His shirt is baggy, but you can see his back muscles, his shoulder muscles, at the top where his skin holds the weight of the shirt. He’s strong, and you’re almost transfixed by the sight.

“Stop staring at me.” His voice is firm, commanding- so different than it had been in your dream. You flush gently and look away, slinking into your seat at the dining table.

“You’re very bossy, even for an alpha,” you say. He doesn’t reply, but you see his jaw work before looking quickly away. “Why are you so angry?”

He stops, staring down at the vegetable and emanating a very agitated aura, only further proving your point. “Why do you talk so much?”

“Because I want to,” you say. “Your turn- even though I asked first.”

He turns towards you with a scowl, and a look in his dark eyes. He stalks forward, stopping at the tall table in the middle of the kitchen, his foot knocking into one of the two stools that sat tucked beneath it. “You ought to know,” he growls, his voice an accusation, though you cannot imagine  _ why _ .

“ _ Ought _ I?” You challenge brazenly.

He bares his teeth at you as rage passes fleetingly through his eyes. Then, he clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, rolling his shoulders, composing himself. He stands there for a quiet moment and breathes gently.

He’s beautiful, and you scold yourself for thinking that.

It’s true.

But you shouldn’t notice that. At _ least _ not right now, when he’s snapping and scowling at you.

But, he is. And at least he stopped, composed himself.

But you shouldn’t congratulate him for the bare minimum.

You are a whirlwind as he takes his moment.

“I’m in rut,” he growls.

You blink at him, blank, until you piece it together. “In- like, in heat?”

He looks surprised, something that shakes the weird anger. He stares at you, and for a moment, you see a glance of the essence, of the version of him you’d dreamt of. “Yes,” he says, the essence retreating. But he’s not so much angry as he is cold. “You really don’t know many alphas, do you?”

“I’m not fond of alphas, generally,” you mutter, looking down at the table.

He’s silent for a long moment. “I can imagine.”

You can’t help but frown quizzically as you pick up on the gentle, apologetic sorrow in his voice. “Mmm,” is all you can manage.

“What happened-” he stops short, his voice angry but not at you. “Was disgusting, and vile.”

“And legal,” you say gently. Your hand thoughtlessly goes to your thigh, where they’d injected the hormone treatment.

He’s silent. You don’t look up at him. You get a bitter smile on your face as you feel that familiar, hateful dread flood you. “I was just a kid when they nabbed me. Four years old. Too young to know who I was, or what I was going to be. I was supposed to be a beta- I had blood tests after the Republic troops got me out of there. Did you know hormone injections can change that?”

There’s a pregnant pause. “No, I didn’t.”

“They nabbed me for my bits,” you say. “I’m intersex. That… Was highly coveted, at least back then. Not sure what’s  _ trendy _ now, it was already on its way out when I left.” You look over at him with a bitter expression. He is sad and gentle and pensive. He meets your eye. “Do you watch that stuff, alpha? Does it help you through your  _ ruts _ ?”

“Not anything like- that.”

“Not kids?”

“No.”

“Women, then? Or men?” You don’t know why you’ve grown so angry at him, but after all, he had been the one to bring it up.

“Either,” he says. “But- not like that. Not… Nothing forced.”

“Nothing forced?” You chuckle mirthlessly. “It’s all  _ forced _ , one way or another- in the Order, anyway.” You shake your head and look down at the table again. You’re rubbing your leg almost obsessively now as the anger in you finally begins to subside, slowly. You think of the many people, the betas and omegas, you had known, many of them sex workers. In the Outer Rim, they were free. A lot of them had started out like you, trafficking victims saved by the Republic and dumped after refusing to join their armies. Some of them, the luckiest, were born in the Outer Rim and had chosen this life, not just accepted the hand they were dealt, not just playing it with a vengeance.

And, now, you’re here. Back in the Order. Scavenging desolate planets and selling them, keeping up your ship and attracting customers, had not been easy- it was physically taxing, emotionally draining, entirely unfulfilling. But you had been free. You had been strong and self-reliant in a way that had always been denied to you.

And, now- because of Kylo Ren, you are here.

You’re left tired and numb when the anger finally flushes itself out. He stands there and you can see him staring down at the table, quiet. He shifts often, restless- in rut, and yet subdued by inconvenient emotion, seemingly uncharacteristic sympathy.

After a long and drull pause, again he speaks. “You can stop me if you don’t want to hear this,” he says gently. His voice is full of that essence. You watch him from the corner of your eyes as he gathers the breakfast he’s making and moves it to the kitchen table to look at you. “And I’m not trying to liken it to what happened to you.” He starts chopping, looking down on it. You listen to the wet, crisp sounds of the vegetable as it splits beneath the blade, still absent-mindedly rubbing your thigh as if it were swollen and angry again, unhappy at the injections.

“Okay,” you breathe quietly.

“I was born to Rebels,” he says softly. Surprised, you blink hard. “A  _ valiant _ general, a  _ noble _ princess, they were thought of as.” His voice is bitter and broken. “I was nine when they shipped me off to train with my uncle. I know… More than enough about the Republic’s armies, believe you me. And… I know more than enough about hormone injections.”

You look over at him then, silent, as he pauses. You could be imagining it, but his eyes look wet. His lip twitches for a moment before his face neutralizes itself, letting that cold, impersonal sheen cross over it. “Alphas in rut are aggressive, often violent, especially when you surround them with an omega’s scent- especially an omega they’re fond of. We were a team of alphas, led by a ‘level-headed’ beta, with one single omega. We were kids when it started, we didn’t know any better than to care about each other, and the beta. Her name was Rey. She was just happy to have a friend, a family, and I guess, so was I.” He looks back down at the food and continues. Once we were trained, once we were sent out to fight, we were almost constantly in rut, and she was almost constantly in heat. The alphas- we hated each other suddenly, and whenever one of us went near her the rest of us got so… Violent. The beta- my uncle- he would use that against us before battles, and he would lower our doses before recon missions, when we had to be stealthy.”

You knit your brow as you’re filled with dread, the same dread you feel when your friends tell you their stories. You’re silent as you wait for him to continue, but when he doesn’t, you ask- “What happened then?”

He takes a moment to speak. “One of them hurt Rey, accidentally, I guess. I can’t imagine she did it on purpose. I… I lost it, I guess.” His voice breaks. “The next thing I knew, they were all dead, and my uncle and Rey were on a ship, flying off.”

“They sent troops after me. Treated me like I was some- some monster, not some doped up child reacting in a way they’d made inevitable. That’s when he found me- the Supreme Leader. He took me in, and he trained me again. And now I fight to end what they do.”

You study him as he stares at the vegetables. His movements are slower, and he seems much more mentally involved in it. Distracting himself from the feelings. You do that, too, though not as often as you dissociate. “That’s terrible,” you say softly.

“Rey was like a sister to me- to all of us. The other alphas were my siblings, too.”

“That’s so- fucked,” you say. “Siblings? And then they put you in heat- in rut?”

Kylo blinks, then frowns. “It’s not always like that,” he says. “It’s not always sexual. I mean, it usually is- that’s its purpose- but it happens with blood family, too- platonically. Alphas get protective over all of their loved ones. Omegas- I’m not really sure. Rey didn’t seem to have a problem with it, though she didn’t really talk about it. From what Supreme Leader has said, the normal, natural heats are there for reproduction, but they still affect all loved ones. And the forced ones are- hard to pin down, hard to figure out.”

You continue to stare at the table, frowning and sad, as you take that in. “Ah.”

Eventually, he continues on. You watch him as he makes what he describes as  _ omelets _ with the vegetables as well as eggs, sitting at the table with you. Silently, with a much more tender air about the room, you eat.

“I don’t know what I want from you,” he says quietly. “I don’t know why I felt the need to- keep you here, or why you irritate me so much, or if it’s all just because of rut.” He’s tense again, though not necessarily angry.

“Okay,” you say gently.

“I won’t- I won’t let what happened to you before, happen again. Or anything like what happened to me.” He picks at his omelet. “There’s a general here-  _ Hux _ \- with a very similar army of doped up alphas, though he skipped the omega torture. There’s… Lots of things about the Order that I wish I could change, that I try to. I’m confident that one day, it’ll all be gone- but nothing will change if no one makes it change.”

“Okay,” you say.

When you’ve finished, he takes the dishes to the sink and washes them. You get up and dry the dishes, putting them away, as he tells you where they go.

“I don’t- talk about that. Only with Supreme Leader, only when he first found me.”

“I don’t talk about it, either,” you say gently. When you’ve finished, he still stands there at the sink as the water slowly drains. You touch his arm gently, feeling his heat and his fire and his essence and his pheromones. For once, it doesn’t bother you.

He jumps, his eyes snapping shut, and you blink as he pulls away, tense. He shudders and visibly fights off anger.

“I’m sor-” you begin but he simply shakes his head and pulls away, stalking off. He pauses on his way to his room, motioning wildly at the living room. “Read. Watch holos. Do- whatever.”

Then, he disappears into his room, and you stand there, looking out at the empty and unfamiliar apartment.


End file.
